


Chet

by orphan_account



Series: Terrible and True [9]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 03:14:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2333180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chet

Thursday, December 23, 1999

“You’re late.”

The car’s clock reads 2:26 AM when Wrench and Numbers pull off at a gas station just outside of town. Wrench fills up the tank while Numbers makes the call he promised to Fargo on a pay phone to arrange the meeting. He initially gets nothing but a vague tongue-lashing from their contact on the night shift, his hoarse voice filled with exasperation as Numbers bounces on his heels, feebly trying to keep warm.

“Well? You gonna say something?”

“Car trouble. Got delayed,” Numbers lies, his scabbed lip stinging in the bitter cold. Can’t exactly tell Fargo that he and Wrench needed to nap and have a heart-to-heart before heading out. Besides, he doesn’t need a damn lecture on the merits of punctuality, he just needs to know where they’re supposed to be.

The guy sighs. “There’s a diner about five miles north of Duluth. ‘Jenny’s Place,’ near Schultz and Wildlife. Great coffee. Go warm yourself up.”

Numbers huffs, glancing behind him. Wrench is making “wrap it up” signals from the passenger seat. Numbers holds up an impatient finger; it’s not like _he’s_ the one standing in sub-zero temperatures.

“When’s our deadline, anyway?”

There’s a pause and for a moment Numbers expects the dead air to turn into a dial tone, but the guy eventually says, “We’ll give you ‘til the new year.”

“We don’t need that long,” Number snaps, “We can have it done by Tuesday.”

“Look, Numbers,” he says, his voice somehow sounding more annoyed than it did when Numbers first called, “just take the extra time. Consider it a Christmas gift. You might need a few more days, anyway, considering who you’re working with.”

Numbers feels his face flush hot. “Don’t shit-talk my partner, desk jockey. He’s more capable than any of you assholes give him credit for.”

“Sure,” the guy sneers, and Numbers can almost hear the eye-roll behind it. “We’ll be in touch, Numbers.”

This time the line does go dead. Numbers slams the receiver onto its cradle.

~~~~

Ten minutes past three, Numbers and Wrench walk into the brightly-lit diner. Wrench immediately begins inspecting the display case half full of desserts that have probably been sitting there for two weeks while Numbers knocks on the counter, rousing the hostess from her nearly-finished crossword puzzle. “Somebody should be here for us.”

The middle-aged woman surveys the two of them and their bruised faces before plastering on a smile, off-white teeth looking brighter than they really are under the fluorescent glow. “Yeah, he’s waitin’ in the back,” she reports in a thick Minnesota accent. She points towards the booths in the smoking section with her pencil, light bouncing off several thick silver bangles around her wrist. “He’s been here a while, ya know,” she says in a more hushed tone, as if Numbers and Wrench are supposed to feel guilty about this.

After a beat she snatches two menus from under the counter and struts off towards their informant, bracelets jingling with every step. Numbers grabs Wrench’s sleeve and gives it a tug; his partner pries his eyes from the cherry cheesecake and follows.

The smoking half of the restaurant is empty save for one white-haired guy, sitting with his back to the entrance and a cloud of mist around him. The hostess drops the menus on the table and hurries back to the counter and her giant book of crossword puzzles, leaving Numbers and Wrench to seat themselves.

As Numbers scoots into the booth after Wrench he takes a look at the man who doesn’t so much as raise his eyes to them. Then he furrows his brow, leans in, and takes an even better look. Shit, he  _knows_  this guy. It’s been at least five years, maybe closer to six, but he could never forget that grizzled face, even if sometimes he wanted to. After coaxing a smile out he says, “Hello, Chet.”

Chet finally looks up from yesterday’s newspaper, his bright eyes scrutinizing the men sitting across from him before recognition dawns. “He-ey! Look who it is!” He extends a hand and covers Numbers’ with his other when they shake, Chet far more enthusiastic than Numbers.

If anyone asked Numbers, he’d say that Chet’s a good guy as far as criminals go, endearing in his own way but with something of a knack for getting under people’s skin if you hung around him too long. “Good to see ya! Real good to see ya,” Chet says a few times before letting go of Numbers’ hand and smiling, blue eyes twinkling. Across the table, confusion sets into Wrench’s brow. “Didn’t know ya were the one comin’ out here,—”

Numbers can anticipate his name—his real name—about to be spoken and cuts Chet off before even a syllable can be uttered. “—Going by Numbers, now. Mr. Numbers.” He pulls his gloves off and stuffs them inside his pocket. It’s easier to sign to Wrench without them, his bare hands against the backdrop of his dark jacket providing a perfect contrast. “This is my associate, Mr. Wrench.” He signs a fast, “ _C-H-E-T, old friend,”_ to Wrench, who nods curtly to the stranger.

“Deaf fella, huh? That’s a shame.” Chet tut-tuts, picks up his cigarette and puffs on it one last time before snuffing it out amongst the five or six others in the ashtray. “I knew a deaf fella, once. Grenade blast blew his eardrums out when we were stationed out in ‘Nam, poor son of a bitch. Killed himself after goin’ back to Mississippi, is what I heard. Real shame,” he shakes his head and chuckles, thick and raspy.

Wrench looks from Chet to Numbers, his eyes narrowing the way they do when he doesn’t fully understand the words on someone’s lips.  _“What’s he saying about me?”_

 _“He’s running his mouth,”_ Numbers explains,  _“being an asshole. But he’ll give us what we need.”_

Numbers points to the briefcase Chet has propped against the wall beside him. “You got some files he can look at?”

“Sure do. That’ll give us a chance to catch up.” He retrieves two manila folders from the brown case, both files nearly bursting with information, and passes them to Wrench.

Wrench’s one good eye goes wide at the sight of them. This is a hell of a lot more information than he expected there to be.

“You fellas need some coffee? Maybe a bagel or something to eat?” a waitress chirps as she approaches. Her wide smile falters when she sees that two-thirds of the men at her table look like they’ve had the holy hell beaten out of them, but she recovers quickly. Wrench hastily flips the menu over to the dessert section as if on a mission and points to the cheesecake he was ogling earlier, holding it up for the waitress to see, though she still has to lean in. Chet makes no secret out of his interest in her ample cleavage, taking advantage of the view while she’s distracted. Numbers raises his eyebrows at this before turning his gaze downward to study the menu.

“Alright, one slice of cherry cheesecake. And how ‘bout you, handsome?” she adds, obviously looking at Numbers’ split lip and digging deep for a tip.

“Coffee, for both of us, and, uh,” Numbers absentmindedly flips through a few pages, hungry but unsure about the prospect of solid food coming in contact with his battered mouth. The grilled cheese sandwich he had earlier didn’t do the gash on his lip any favors. “I’ll have a plate of mashed potatoes and a side of carrots. Thanks.” He gathers both laminated books and passes them to the waitress’ outstretched hand.

She turns to Chet, still scribbling on her notepad. “And you, hon? Need another refill?”

“Just bring us a pot, sweetheart, that’ll save ya a few trips.”

“Alrighty. Be right back, boys.”

“So what’s the story behind this?” Chet gestures to Wrench and Numbers’ faces once the waitress is out of earshot. “Somebody give ya some trouble?”

Wrench is already absorbed in the files, leaving Numbers to speak freely. He gestures to Wrench with a slight tilt of his head. “Had some differences we needed to work out.”

“Looks like ya haven’t changed that much,” Chet replies knowingly, taking a sip of rapidly-cooling coffee from his chipped mug. “Ya might need a stitch or two, there.”

Numbers shakes his head as the server returns with their pot of coffee and two old mugs, placing them all on the table; she’s gone again an instant later, back to wherever she was hiding when Wrench and Numbers arrived.

“I’ve had worse done to my face by bigger guys.”

Chet laughs roughly again, refilling his cup before pouring some for Numbers and then Wrench, who doesn’t bother looking up if he even noticed this happening; he’s engrossed in the dossier, committing names and locations to memory. “Don’t I know it. Had to patch ya up plenty of times, remember? Reckless, that’s what ya were. Ya still runnin’ your mouth at everybody?” He wiggles his fingers in front of him as he continues, “Or just your hands, these days?”

There’s some of that annoyance Numbers was bracing himself for, right on schedule, but he plays along anyway as Chet’s chuckles give way to a long-time smoker’s hacking. “Oh, you know me. I can’t help myself.”

Chet pulls another cigarette from his pack. “You want one, kid?”

“Nah, I quit.”

“Well! Ain’t you full of surprises!” he chimes, jabbing the unlit cigarette in Numbers’ direction. “Good for you! Tried a few times, myself, but ya know how it goes.”

Numbers forces a grin and quickly changes the subject, nodding towards Chet’s somewhat under-sized wedding ring. “How’s the wife?”

“She’s good, doin’ well. Had a touch of thyroid cancer a few years back, but you know my Diane. A little bit of cancer won’t stop her from doin’ what she loves, and she was knittin’ up a damn storm all through her chemotherapy. Made herself some real nice caps to cover up, on account of all her hair fallin’ out.” He nonchalantly lights up the cigarette he’s been holding, evidently unaware of the cosmic irony that his non-smoking, stone cold sober wife was the one that wound up with cancer while he continues to plow through life, healthy and haughty as ever. “Right as rain, now. In remission and doin’ real good.”

Numbers nods slowly, his eyebrows pinched up in a guilty frown. When he moved to Fargo he had promised to write the saintly woman who put up with Chet’s long disappearances and even longer lies for thirty-some odd years, but he never did. He wasn’t exactly good at keeping in touch, never knew what to say. “Glad she’s alright, Chet.”

The waitress returns with their orders, mercifully freeing him from his obligation to comment further on the matter. Numbers elbows Wrench, who clumsily stuffs the paperwork back into the folders and stows them on the booth, out of sight.

“Here ya go,” she coos to Wrench, placing a massive slice of cake in front of him. “And there’s your mash and carrots. Are you sure that’s all you fellas want? Tell ya what: we’ve got great roast beef, it’s our special tonight. Comes with a side of spinach. It’ll warm ya up real nice.”

Wrench is already shoveling cheesecake into his mouth, watching the woman talk with barely an inkling of what she’s saying. Numbers waves his hand dismissively, though he’s quick to add a sheepish “No, thanks,” when Chet makes the sort of chastising face a father does when scolding a rude child.

She drops the bill on the table before she leaves, and once she’s gone Chet plows onward. “Anyways, I quit doin’ jobs after Diane got sick. Had to stay in town, take care of her.” He exhales, carelessly blowing a stream of smoke across the table.

Wrench evidently doesn’t take kindly to this and drops his fork onto his nearly empty plate with a clatter, his unbruised eye scrunched up in an unappreciative squint. He bumps Numbers’ upper arm with the back of his hand, still fixing his glare on Chet.  _“Tell him smoking is disgusting.”_

“What’s he sayin’?”

Numbers gives Wrench a warning glance. He doesn’t need any more flak tonight, be it from their contact or Chet or his partner.

 _“We’re eating. Tell him that’s rude,”_ he insists, shaking his head and scowling.

Numbers’ head falls into his hands and he sighs heavily, his hands stretching out and hovering in exasperation before looking up to a baffled Chet. “Please don’t blow smoke in my partner’s face,” he mutters monotonously, “he’s very, very cranky today.”

“Sorry, fella,” Chet replies good-naturedly, stamping the barely-smoked cigarette out in the glass tray, “didn’t mean to get ya all riled up.”

Numbers exhales, gives Wrench a look as if to say “happy now?” and then takes a few bites of his mashed potatoes. They’re heavy and warm but bland as cardboard, though he predicted as much. Wrench polishes off his cake and sits with his elbows on the table, one hand covering the other in a fist and resting against his mouth, waiting for Chet and Numbers to resume their conversation. He can look over the files more thoroughly with Numbers later. For now he’d rather see what he could pick up about Chet.

Chet doesn’t disappoint; a short beat passes before he resumes chattering away, unphased by Wrench’s leering. “As I was sayin’: I stick around town nowadays. I’m too damn old to be runnin’ all over the state, dealin’ with these crazy assholes. So I got a little dive bar over on the east side of Duluth. Real shady types come through, and I’m talkin’ classic slimeballs.” Out of habit he reaches for his pack of smokes, stopping himself only when he remembers Wrench’s previous objection. When he continues his voice is hushed. “These guys love to talk, ya know? Can’t help themselves, I guess. Anyways, that’s how I found those fellas.” He points to the files beside Wrench, drains his umpteenth cup of coffee. “Regulars. And awful tippers, the four of ‘em. Rackin’ up seventy, eighty dollar tabs and leavin’ two bucks on the table for me. Fuckin’ cheap bast—”

“Chet,” Numbers interrupts, unwilling to let the man fall too deeply into his rabbit hole of a tangent, “stick to the essentials.”

“Right, right. Anyways, one of ‘em—Lagler—got real sloshed about three weeks back, and gets to talkin’ to his buddies about this plan of his to rip off some fella up in some town in North Dakota, didn’t say the name. Says the fella trusts him, that it’ll be real easy money for all of ‘em. He’s runnin’ his mouth, they’re spillin’ all the details. Blahdy blah. I’m barely listenin’, to tell ya the truth; a lot of small-time hot shots come in but never end up doin’ anything. All talk and no action. But then I hear the fella say ‘Fargo,’ and everything changes.” He snaps his fingers for added effect.

Numbers stops prodding his cooling dinner, lending Chet his full attention and ready to finally hear the meat of this story. To his left, Wrench’s face is unflinching, waiting. He knows a fair amount of this information from the papers he’s skimmed, but he has to admit that Chet spins a decent enough yarn, even if he can’t hear it.

“I call it in that night, and Fargo tells me to keep an ear to the ground. Don’t cha know, they’re all back the very next Wednesday, and this time they’re _celebratin’_. Lagler bought two bottles of scotch and the four of ‘em were causin’ a raucous. Drove away all my other customers! But I didn’t mind just that once, ya see: I was waitin’ for ‘em to come back. I put a bug under their usual table. Real risky move, but I was willin’ to chance them findin’ it. Waitress ain’t comin’, right?”

Numbers cranes his neck out towards the aisle, his dark eyes not spying another soul in the smoking area. The night shift remains as reclusive as ever and he waves Chet on.

“Turns out they killed somebody for that fella they were talkin’ about, a month or so back. Well, not all of ‘em, just one of ‘em did. Think it was Kobrick, based on the voice. Or it coulda been Petroske.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“The fact remains, though: they killed the guy, alright? And when they came in that Wednesday they had cheated Lagler’s buddy outta his money, somethin’ to the tune of 200 grand. Carver’s name came up a few times, but I didn’t hear anythin’ else about him.”

Looking to Wrench, Numbers nods, resolute. This fits in well enough with the scraps Lovera gave them. “This helps a lot, Chet. I’ll give you a call after we go over the rest of the information.” He signs a hasty, _“Let’s go,”_ to Wrench, who tucks the files into his coat. Numbers pulls a wad of bills from his wallet, tossing them on the center of the table.

“What? You’re leavin’?” Chet’s face crumbles, the corners of his mouth disappearing in the white stubble of his beard. “Ya just got here.”

“It’s four-thirty,” Numbers counters, barely suppressing a wide yawn that pulls at the scab on his mouth with a sharp sting.

Chet checks his watch in disbelief. “Huh! Would ya look at that? Time flies, eh? But hey, uh, tell ya what.” He stands, gathering his briefcase and grey overcoat. “I’ve got a huntin’ cabin a few miles south of town. Just got a brand new radiator installed that keeps the place nice and toasty. Stay there, I insist.” He fishes around in his pocket before Numbers can even think to politely decline and pulls out a ring with at least a dozen keys hanging from it, eventually removing one, tiny and bronze.

Holding it up to the men and glancing at Numbers’ bottom lip, which is currently threatening to rip open again, he lays down a simple rule: “Don’t get blood on anything.”


End file.
